


The Garret

by Sunnyrea



Series: The War [18]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Valley Forge, aides-de-camp, kind of, lots of banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 06:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11007690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: Laurens lurches up in bed, ready to tell McHenry off; what would he say of Laurens' soft southern living? However, before he can tell McHenry what he can do with ‘soft,’ Laurens slams his head on the sloped ceiling above him with such force he cries out in surprise and pain.[Laurens hurts himself and Hamilton tries to stop him doing so][Part of a series but can be read as a stand alone story]





	The Garret

John Laurens wakes to the sound of James McHenry, their new aide-de-camp, shouting from the floor below, something about the sun having already risen and so should they. Laurens groans into his pillow, feels the cold creeping around his thin blanket encouraging him to stay where he lies. It may be April now but the cold still persists in the morning at least, if less biting. Would they notice his absence for a few hours yet? Tench Tilghman has taken over most of the French translations of late. Captain Benjamin Walker manages Baron Von Steuben’s Prussian into comprehensible English on the field so no French knowledge of Laurens’ is required much of the time. Surely if he should sleep on then none would be the wiser, he established now up in the garret far above the others’ heads and easily forgotten.

“Laurens!” McHenry shouts, his voice closer, likely on the stairs. “Your attic alcove will not save you.” Laurens rolls onto his back pondering how McHenry perceives his thoughts as McHenry shouts on. “Do you think this your soft southern living now with hours into the morning with naught to do?”

Laurens lurches up in bed, ready to tell McHenry off; what would he say of Laurens' soft southern living? However, before he can tell McHenry what he can do with ‘soft,’ Laurens slams his head on the sloped ceiling above him with such force he cries out in surprise and pain. Laurens ducks down again, clapping both hands over the stabbing portion of his skull with another loud groan.

“Laurens?” McHenry says, his voice more hesitant.

Laurens moans again in reply.

“Laurens!” It is Alexander Hamilton’s voice this time. “Do not make me climb these stairs and drag you from your cot. If I must rise, so shall you.”

“Quiet!” Laurens snaps at the two of them then groans again as the yelling causes a renewed ache in his head.

Laurens opens his eyes slowly, his vision blurred for a moment but soon resolving itself. He stares at the empty bedroll in the corner across from him; John Fitzgerald is away south on assignment in Virginia at present.

“Laurens?”

Laurens turns his head to see Hamilton standing at the top of the stairs in only his shirt and breeches. He frowns. “Are you well?”

“You might ask ‘is the ceiling well’ as my head hit it so.”

Hamilton huffs a laugh quickly they shuts his mouth. He clears his throat once then clasps his hands behind his back. “Did it now?”

Laurens glares at him. “If McHenry did not feel the need to add insults to morning rouses I would not have had cause to...” Laurens breaks off his tirade as Hamilton begins laughing. “Enough!” 

Hamilton smiles at him, still clearly fighting his amusement.

“It does cause me pain!”

Hamilton nods sagely. “I am sure it does.”

Laurens grabs the pillow from behind himself and heaves it at Hamilton. “Oh, hang you!”

Hamilton laughs again as he catches the pillow then throws it right back at Laurens. “Complain all you will then come down and have some breakfast. The coffee should soothe your poor head.”

Hamilton turns and walks back down the stairs as Laurens shifts the pillow to its proper spot then flops back on his bed, wincing almost instantly as the forming bump on his head objects.

“A grand start to the day,” he mutters.

 

Once freed from his ceiling confined cot and properly uniformed, Laurens descends the two flights of stairs. He notes the General is not in his office, likely out in the field with Von Steuben or Lafayette.

“Laurens!”

Laurens clenches his teeth together but resists rolling his eyes at McHenry’s voice. Laurens stands in the doorway of the aide-de-camp office and crosses his arms. “Did you deem it entirely necessary to insult my person before even coming downstairs for the day?”

McHenry huffs. “How else should I get you out of your blankets so quickly?”

Richard Kidder Meade and Tilghman snort with amusement at the same time. Hamilton looks at him with an attempt at concern but the corners of his mouth turn up despite his efforts.

“My head should prefer you find another way,” Laurens says petulantly as he walks in and takes a seat beside Hamilton.

“Good morning,” Robert Hanson Harrison says as he walks in. He holds out a mug of coffee toward Laurens. “Did you hit your head this morning? It sounded like the cabin building outside had suddenly flown above us!”

Laurens takes the coffee as Tilghman and Meade laugh once each. Laurens shoots them both a glare which neither acknowledge, their faces low over their writing.

“I did indeed,” Laurens replies with a touch of his usual civility as it appears Harrison genuinely cares about his wellbeing. “I built no cabin.”

The whole room laughs at Laurens’ renewed good humor and Harrison claps a hand on his shoulder. “Take care of your head, dear Laurens; we require the mind inside to stay sound.”

“Quite so,” Hamilton says quietly.

Laurens glances sidelong and sees Hamilton furtively examining Laurens’ head. He assumes his hair masks the mark left by the ceiling. At this point, he feels no more pain unless he should touch the spot. He did hit it rather hard.

“Perhaps you should move your cot further from the wall,” Hamilton suggests.

Laurens makes a dismissive noise. “I will be fine. Closer to the wall is warmer.”

“Here here,” Tilghman says from the table to their right as he gestures to the wall beside him.

Laurens smiles and raises his eyebrows at Tilghman. Tilghman grins and knocks his boot against the stone of the hearth closest to him out of all in the room.

“Benefits of rising early?” Laurens says.

Tilghman smiles. “And not sleeping in the garret.”

“Bully for you.”

“Would anyone care for food?” McHenry asks.

Laurens resists a crass ‘not from you’ reply as the other aides-de-camp murmur in the affirmative. McHenry nods and walks out of the office across the hall to the side door which leads down three steps out to the kitchen. Laurens watches him for moment, fantasizing about tripping him down the stairs. Then he turns back to the letters waiting for him to copy. Time to act his station.

The five aides-de-camp in the office fall silent, only the sounds of their scratching pens and the gentle tap of ink wells as they work on lists and letters and orders to be copied or written or rewritten and every other bit of paperwork General Washington needs of them. 

“Did you sleep well, despite the ceiling?” Hamilton asks Laurens quietly, his knee now pressing against Laurens’ under the table.

“Tolerably,” Laurens replies.

“It is cold up there without a fire to warm you,” Hamilton says as though he does not believe Laurens’ assertion of a well enough rest.

“I have become accustomed to the cold weather,” Laurens replies. “We are certainly warmer than most of the men.”

“True…”

Laurens glances at Hamilton, his hand still moving with practiced ease. “But?”

“But you need not sleep there every night; surely it would be fair to allow you a chance in a room below with a fire.”

“Only one aide bedroom has a hearth, Hamilton. I am at ease with my lot high above stairs.”

Meade makes a disbelieving noise. Laurens sees Hamilton give Meade a look but no one says more. Laurens slides his hand beneath their table and squeezes Hamilton’s leg once in reassurance. Hamilton shoots a smile in his direction then looks back at his writing.

“Here we are, men!” The five aides look up at McHenry back in the doorway once more with a large platter in one hand and plates in the other. “Clear a table. I’ll allow you fifteen minutes to eat.”

Tilghman scoffs. “Are you Captain of the breakfast repast?”

McHenry makes a face. “I am a Colonel.”

“Lieutenant Colonel,” Laurens and Hamilton chorus together.

Meade laughs as he stands up from the table across from them. “Come come, let us chide McHenry later. I am famished.” He gestures to Tilghman’s table nearer the fire than the others. “Clear off.”

Hamilton and Laurens help Tilghman move all of the correspondence, unused paper and ink to their own table in a small pile. Harrison shifts chairs from his and Tilghman’s table while McHenry puts down his burden of food and cutlery as space appears. Laurens and Hamilton sit together on the bench, Harrison and Meade to their left in their same chairs, Tilghman across where he sat before while McHenry works his way around the table to sit in the chair nearest the window cattycorner to Hamilton. Harrison passes plates around the table while Tilghman slides forks to those in need. On the platter in the middle of the table now is a small plate of scrambled eggs, another with what looks like sausages and a half loaf of bread.

“We lack butter,” McHenry says, “but I imagine you would all expect such.”

“I am amazed at the sight of eggs!” Hamilton says. “Did we steal a chicken?”

“Or two,” Laurens quips.

“Maybe,” McHenry says as he stabs a sausage with his fork.

“Oooo,” Laurens and Meade crow at once with varying tones of disapproval and surprise.

“I am heartily in favor of a little thieving,” Harrison says. “Better we be fed.”

Tilghman points at Harrison with eggs now speared on his fork. “You say so now but when you must write the next report of rations used and available I imagine your tune should change.”

“I shall force McHenry to write it.”

Laurens and Hamilton both chuckle into their plates. They glance at each other smiling. Laurens cuffs Hamilton good-naturedly on the cheek then steals his mug of coffee.

“You have your own,” Hamilton gripes.

“I know.”

Hamilton grabs his mug back then pushes it further down the table out of Laurens’ reach.

“And now you’ll knock it to the floor.”

“Only if you distract me with your theft attempts.”

Laurens grins. “Perhaps I like yours more.”

“It is the same coffee.”

“Is it?”

Across the table, Tilghman laughs at something Meade says beside him. Hamilton glances at them giving Laurens the opportunity to reach over and take Hamilton’s coffee again. It just tastes better. Perhaps it was a different pot. 

Hamilton glares at Laurens as Laurens takes another sip of Hamilton’s coffee. Then Hamilton smiles in a fond way and says quietly. “You just wish to have what is mine.”

Laurens smiles slowly. “Perhaps.”

Hamilton reaches up and taps Lauren’s head. “Perhaps the bump did –” But Hamilton stops quickly as Laurens hisses in pain. “Oh!” Hamilton pulls his arm back. “I apologize!”

“It is fine.”

“It is not.”

“I sat up with more force than expected. You should worry for the ceiling.”

“Indeed I do.” 

Laurens feels Hamilton’s leg flush against his, thigh to thigh and knee to knee. Hamilton’s face looks like he wants to pull Laurens into his arms, soothing noises on his tongue. Laurens sees Hamilton’s hands twitch but the other aides around them keep Hamilton's hands at bay.

Hamilton suddenly takes his mug back from Laurens and puts it down on the table. Then he stands up and stares at Laurens. “Come with me.”

“Come with...”

Hamilton steps over the bench, around behind Laurens then grips him by the wrist and upper arm pulling him up to standing. “Come.”

“Hamilton, I am –”

“It will be but a moment.”

“Yes, care for the wounded, mother dear,” Meade says toward Hamilton. “Leave more eggs for us.”

Hamilton aims a kick toward Meade’s chair but Harrison, the closer, takes the brunt.

“Must you?” Harrison gripes.

However, Hamilton is already pulling Laurens toward the office door.

“Would you not rather us eat?” Laurens complains. “You can do little for my head and it has not even been an hour yet since I hit it.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?”

Hamilton pulls Laurens by the wrist out toward the kitchen. In the kitchen, warmer than the house, they find two of the General's servants working close to the fire in the large, open hearth.

“Excuse me, madams?”

The nearer blond woman looks up, hair stuck to her brow with sweat. “Sir?”

“Might I borrow a cloth and some water?”

“Sarah? Have we a clean cloth?” She asks over her shoulder to the older woman.

Sarah looks up from the dough she kneads as if she has not even noticed their visitors. She smiles when she sees it is Hamilton. Hamilton charms all the women around the camp simply with his smile and red hair. Laurens can understand.

“Please?” He flashes her a smile. “My compatriot injured himself most absurdly.”

“Wha– I...”

Both women laugh at Laurens’ sputtering. Hamilton flashes that charming smile at Laurens then walks over to Sarah as she pulls a towel off the back of a chair against the wall.

“Clean as we get most days in here,” she says. “There should be a bucket of fresh water outside.” She gestures to the far door. “Should be past the time it would ice over and with the heat coming from there.” She gestures to the fire.

Hamilton takes the cloth and sweeps a bow over her hand. “Thank you, malady.”

The women titter as Hamilton rises, smiles yet again then takes Laurens’ arm, leading him out the kitchen door.

“You over do it,” Laurens chides as they step outside into the morning chill.

“I think not,” Hamilton grins.

They both see the bucket of water by the door, no layer of ice to be seen as Hamilton crouches down in front of it. 

Laurens leans against the wall, crosses his arms to keep the heat close to his chest. “You think to put that cold water to me?”

“It will help.”

“Help give me a chill.”

Hamilton huffs. “Help soothe your head.”

“Would warm water not be better?”

“I work with what I have. Give me a moment, John, please.”

Laurens smiles as Hamilton stands up straight again, wringing out the excess water from the cloth.

Laurens cannot say no to Hamilton. “As you will.”

Hamilton steps close and gently presses the wet cloth to Laurens’ head. Laurens flinches for a moment at the sensitive area and the cold of the water but tries to school his features. Hamilton raises a justified eyebrow at him. 

Laurens’ eyes shift down to Hamilton’s lips, redder in the cold and his breath coming out in short visible puffs between them. They stand close enough with Hamilton’s arm up by Laurens’ shoulder, his hand on Laurens’ head, that Laurens finds his one hand trailing lightly down the buttons of Hamilton’s waistcoat. He wants to pull Hamilton closer, flush and warm in the winter weather but Laurens stays still; this closeness is enough for now.

“Do you plan to soak my hair through?” Laurens asks quietly, looking back up at Hamilton’s eyes.

Hamilton jerks slightly, his expression one clearly lost in thought looking over Laurens’ face, likely thinking along similar lines as Laurens.

“Of course not.” He pulls his hand down. He glances at the cloth then holds it up to Laurens. Laurens sees a faint spot of blood. “It appears you attack yourself as viciously as you do the British when given means to do so.”

“It appears so,” Laurens replies with a chastised expression. “It was not my intention. If McHenry –”

“Yes, you have said.” Hamilton raises both eyebrows then holds the cloth up to Laurens’ head again, pressing gently but firmly several times in a blotting manner. “But it has been done and you would do better to simply avoid such jolting in the future.”

Laurens watches Hamilton as he looks up at Laurens’ head, checking the cloth then dabbing at Laurens’ hair again. Laurens wishes he could kiss Hamilton now. Instead he says, “I will.”

When they return to the office, the other aides have begun to clean up the breakfast platter and plates.

“Dear sirs!” Hamilton cries in consternation. “Did you think not to save us even a small amount?”

“No,” Tilghman says.

“Yes,” Meade quickly counters at their horrified expressions. He picks up a plate sequestered on the bookshelf for Laurens and Hamilton to share with a small portion of eggs and a sausage. “It is but little, however.”

“Leave the table and you should expect as Tilghman said,” McHenry chides.

“I was seeing to my fellow aide’s health,” Hamilton counters.

Laurens takes the plate. “Thank you, Kidder.”

Meade grins at him. “I am the thoughtful one.”

“You are,” all five of them reply.

 

After a long day of writing, Laurens’ head diminishing in any pain and his hand taking the aching role instead, Laurens retires to his lofty room for the night. The aides often switch rooms when any of them are sent with messages or on longer assignments which keep them away from camp and headquarters. Should any visiting officer of higher rank come to see the General and need housing for the night, the aides are booted high up in the house or even out into any available cabin should the need arise. With seven of them requiring beds, they usually have at least two in the garret. 

As of now, Hamilton and Tilghman share the room without the hearth while Harrison, McHenry and Meade share the other and enjoy the embers. One of them could have come upstairs to join Laurens with Fitzgerald on his extended mission should he have wished more space. However, the three of them seemed to prioritize the fire over room to move. Then again, Harrison and Meade tend to rise earliest of the group so they may worry less for space to sleep. In contrast, McHenry snores. He may deny such but Laurens has heard him. Hamilton does as well but Laurens finds Hamilton’s to be far more endearing. Laurens did once share a room with Hamilton on the second floor which certainly had its merits. 

In truth, Laurens finds some preference to the attic of late. What with Fitzgerald’s long departure, it allows Laurens the rare blessing of privacy in such a close quartered house. Also, he moves as he is ordered, so what choice has he?

Now he sits in the one chair in the room beside his bed at the folding table under the window. He pens a letter to his father not far away now in York with the congress. Laurens requires some new ribbons for his hair and new shirts. His father should be able to procure some and see them sent.

“Laurens?” He turns to see Hamilton at the top of the stairs. Hamilton smiles then walks closer. “Writing still?”

“It is a letter to my father.

Hamilton’s mouth pinches slightly. He has heard stories from Laurens of his father and, though he keeps his counsel, Laurens know Hamilton disapproves of some of his father’s past behaviors in regards to Laurens. Such concern never fails to make Laurens smile.

“Do you tell him of your battle with the architecture?”

Laurens stops writing in the middle of a sentence detailing exactly that. He laughs once sheepishly then gestures to his cot. “Sit, Hamilton.”

“Oh, I have sat much of the day,” Hamilton says as he paces near Laurens’ side before leaning against the wall near the window. “I would do better to use my legs as they are meant.”

Laurens chuckles again as he looks up at Hamilton beside him. “And such an impressive figure you cut.”

“You think so?”

“You know I do.”

Hamilton reaches down and runs his fingertips over Laurens’ knuckles grasped round his quill.

“I miss you,” Hamilton says quietly as Laurens watches him. “Tilghman is fine, of course. He does not roll about in his bed as some do.” Laurens smiles. “But I find I miss the sound,” Hamilton continues. “I miss you so far away above my head.”

“And yet you see me each day.” Laurens lets go of his quill and curls his fingers around Hamilton’s.

“Ah, but you look so fair in the fading light.” Hamilton smiles more. “And the candle light.”

“And the dark?”

“Yes, because I must be all the closer then.”

“The better to see me by?”

Hamilton laughs once, rubbing his thumb over Laurens’. “More than see.”

“Hmm, less often than one might prefer.”

Hamilton stands up straight again, lets their hands part then steps close to Laurens’ side. Laurens wraps his arm loosely around Hamilton’s legs as he looks up at Hamilton.

Hamilton touches Laurens’ head. “I think I can see the spot where you hit the ceiling.” He makes a face. “You will have a bump.”

“Such a pleasure.”

Hamilton smiles and drops his hand down to the bare skin of Laurens’ neck. “Perhaps I should chide McHenry again for antagonizing you so. He slept here his first night; he may have known the danger.”

Laurens chuckles. “Cheeky ass.”

Hamilton laughs too. “Sabotage among the ranks.”

“I may have to call him out.”

Hamilton grins as he slides his fingers along Laurens’ neck, up into his hair and back down again. “Please no, I would fear for your life.”

Laurens scoffs. “I would most certainly win.”

“Still, I would rather not have the fear even for a moment.”

Laurens nods, pulls his arm tighter around Hamilton so Hamilton’s knees press into Laurens’ side. “Then I shall concede and call for no duel to spare you.”

“Thank you.”

Laurens rubs his hand over the crook of Hamilton’s knee as they look at each other. He sees Hamilton make a face, trying to ignore the tickle Laurens no doubt causes. Laurens smiles until Hamilton pinches his neck. Laurens opens his mouth in mock offense but stops the motion of his hand.

“It is lovely to look down on you for a change,” Hamilton says.

“This is not the only way you have looked down on me.”

Hamilton makes an ‘hmm’ noise deep in his chest and Laurens counts that as a win. Hamilton’s hand slides up into Laurens hair for a moment, his fingers tangling and loosening the ribbon keeping it proper. 

Then he pulls his hand away and steps back so Laurens only touches one of Hamilton’s legs now. “I should sleep.”

“You should,” Laurens allows. “Such a full house will soon be heavy with snores.”

Hamilton raises his eyebrows. “Not from me.”

Laurens purses his lips and squeezes Hamilton’s thigh. “Of course not.”

Hamilton gives Laurens a look but does not argue the point. “You should sleep as well. We need your thoughts more than your father.”

Laurens glances at the unfinished letter then back to Hamilton. “I will, soon.”

“Good. Rest your head.”

“Only until tomorrow.”

“Hmm.” Hamilton nods then turns and walks back toward the stairs, Laurens’ hand dragging over Hamilton’s leg as he walks away until Laurens can no longer reach.

“Good night,” Hamilton says as he starts down the stairs.

“Good night, Alexander.”

Laurens turns back to his letter, picking up his quill once more. However, before he can start writing again he hears Hamilton returning up the stairs.

Laurens turns to Hamilton as he strides back into the attic. “What is –”

Hamilton reaches Laurens, leans down, tilts Laurens chin with two fingers and kisses him hard making Laurens breathe sharply through his nose in surprise. Hamilton smiles wide as he pulls away again, eyes dark in the dim light. “Good night, Jack.”

Then Hamilton stands up and hurries back down the stairs leaving Laurens breathless and grinning after him.

 

Laurens hears the sounds of activity, footsteps and someone’s irritated tone of voice. Laurens keeps his eyes closed, thinks of thicker blankets and walls that keep out more of the cold. He pulls up his knees on the too small cot to find a warm spot for his feet.

“...but the coffee... and if....”

It sounds like Tilghman but it is hard to tell. Tilghman usually awakens quickly. Perhaps not everyone is arisen yet.

“You should try not to....”

“Shit... ow....”

He hears Hamilton’s laugh. No doubt Tilghman is falling into his clothing again quite literally. One morning he stubbed his toes twice before he was even able to put his breeches on.

Then Laurens hears General Washington’s clear voice. “Hamilton. Tilghman. Meade.”

Laurens jerks up suddenly, believing he has slept too late and, in fact, the voices he hears are further below in the offices already starting the day’s work. A second before he can remind himself of what happened the previous day, Laurens smacks his head hard on the ceiling with a crack. Laurens falls back down onto his cot, both hands over his head, biting down on his lip to stop an anguished cry. He most certainly hit the same spot he did yesterday if the excessive pain, worse than before, is any method of judgement.

“Fuck...” he hisses through clenched teeth.

“Laurens?” 

“John?” 

Laurens opens one eye to see Meade and Hamilton jockeying for space on the top stair, staring at him.

“Good morning,” Laurens groans.

“Did you hit your head again?” Hamilton says as Meade says, “How could you hit your head again?” 

Laurens closes his eyes, keeps his hands in place. “The General’s voice can cause extreme reactions.”

Hamilton groans as Meade laughs once in a breathless way.

“Indeed,” Meade says. “Can we...”

As Laurens opens his eyes once more, Hamilton has crossed half the floor to crouch low beside Laurens’ cot before Meade can finish his question. 

Hamilton reaches his hand out over Laurens’ head. “Let me see.”

“I will be fine.”

Hamilton tries to pull at Laurens’ hands. “Laurens...”

“I said I will be fine,” Laurens repeats, pulling one hand off to wave Hamilton away though he winces at the movement.

Hamilton stands up straight and frowns down at Laurens. “We should move you back downstairs. Tench and I have room enough if none of the others will trade with you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Laurens says as he sits up slowly. “I do not plan on this every morning.”

“Twice is a pattern.”

“He is not wrong, Laurens,” Meade adds from the stairs.

“Will you both desist and allow me to dress?”

Hamilton gives him a look that says ‘no’ but Meade is already saying, “Yes,” for the two of them.

Laurens pulls his hand down from his head and sees blood on his fingers. Hamilton does not miss it either from the angry noise he makes. Laurens looks up at him. He mouths ‘please’ at Hamilton with his best doe eyes.

Hamilton deflates somewhat and nods once. “Make haste then and I will see to your head once you are down.”

“You will not,” Laurens says as Hamilton turns away to follow Meade down the stairs again.

“I will!” Hamilton shouts back as he turns down out of sight.

Laurens drags himself out of bed, changes his shirt and pulls on his breeches, fumbling with the ties. His vision blurs and he needs to lean his hand on the wall to keep his balance. How hard did he hit his head? Laurens blows out a breath then picks up the pitcher of water in his window. He pours a small amount onto the cloth underneath it and rubs it over the back of his neck. The water is freezing cold but it makes his vision snap into full clarity.

“Blast,” he mutters, his teeth briefly chattering.

He shakes his shoulders once to stave off the chill then dabs the cloth at the bump on his head. There is most certainly blood this time but after a few rubs with the cloth it stops coming.

“There,” he says to himself. “Fine.”

His head aches and his leans his hands on the windowsill again, his eyes slipping closed, as he waits for the pain to lessen. There might be something to moving his cot further from the wall, warmth be damned. Then he opens his eyes once more and searches for his stockings hidden somewhere under his coat.

When Laurens makes it downstairs five minutes later, he has to duck under Hamilton’s hand waiting with a damp cloth and what looks like some sort of mashed herbal remedy in a dish.

“Laurens...”

“I am well.” Laurens puts his hand to his head then holds it palm out to show Hamilton the lack of blood. “I am sound. You need not mother me so.”

“I do not mother you, I administer aid.”

The door to Washington’s office is fortunately closed as Laurens passes then stops in the doorway to the aide’s office in front. “Do we have coffee yet?”

“Meade went to ask after it,” Harrison says. “Did you hit your head again?”

“It sounded like a babe crying for its mother,” McHenry says with a wicked grin.

“Are you testing the strength of the building?” Tilghman asks as he leans back in his chair, balancing on two legs.

Laurens frowns. “You can all go – ahh!” Laurens stops mid-sentence with a cry as Hamilton places the warm cloth against his head. 

“Hold that.”

Laurens puts up his hand obediently and holds the cloth against his head. “I said...”

“We heard you,” Hamilton interrupts, “quite well indeed but we all must be mindful of our health, especially with the state of our troops.”

“It is not my health, it is a wound.”

“Ah ha!” Hamilton says with a grin. “An admission.”

Laurens sighs.

“You would do best to indulge him,” Harrison says as he opens a book beside his current writing. “If we had to suffer through his worried ranting in the minutes it took you to arrive down here then you must put up with his caring for your cracked skull.”

“I am sure the bone is sound.”

McHenry laughs. “Would you like me to check?”

Laurens glares at him. “No, doctor.”

“Then have this.” Laurens turns to Meade now standing to the left of Hamilton holding a mug. “Coffee just for you.”

Hamilton nods a thank you at Meade as Laurens takes the mug. “You are an angel, Kidder.”

He smiles back. “I am aware.”

McHenry and Harrison both laugh. Tilghman smiles as he leans his chair backward again, this time wobbling so he hits the wall with a yelp.

McHenry laughs harder as Harrison snaps his book shut. “Boys!” He glares at Laurens and Tilghman in turn. “Do I need to place you in special seats away from any harmful portions of the house, no sharp corners or pointy quills? I think we have dangers enough in this war without you inventing more!”

“Gentlemen.”

All six aides snap to attention as General Washington suddenly appears behind the gaggle in the doorway. Laurens quickly steps back into the room with Hamilton to give the General space, barely avoiding spilling his coffee all over his uniform.

“Sir!” They all cry in various inflections, Harrison jumping up to standing and Tilghman sounding rather pathetic as he still maneuvers his chair back into its proper position to avoid falling.

Washington glances down at Meade, the only one still outside of the office. Meade grins up at him. Washington chuckles very quietly so perhaps only the three nearest can hear. “I trust your morning banter is complete?

“Yes, sir,” they reply, McHenry with a muttered, “If some would not hit their heads.”

“The Baron has drafted an additional training regimen which the regiment commanders will need to begin implementing within the week. Hamilton, Laurens, Tilghman, I need the two of you on translation and the rest copying out their translations once they are completed. The faster this is spread to the entire encampment the better.”

“Yes, sir,” Tilghman, Hamilton and Laurens all reply.

“Harrison, I require you on supplies. We must send another request to York today. The reports of remaining rations are lower than they should be.”

“Of course, sir,” Harrison says as he starts to gather documents on the desk.

“And Laurens.”

Laurens stands up straighter and quickly pulls down the cloth he just now realizes he still holds to his head. “Yes, sir?”

“Stop hitting your head on the ceiling.”

A step behind Washington, the only one out of sight, Meade shuts his eyes and shakes in suppressed laughter. The rest of the room stands very still as Laurens stares up at Washington. 

He nods once. “Yes, sir.”

Washington stares back at him then he slowly smiles before turning on his heel and marching back toward his office. The moment the General turns into his office out of sight, all the aides start to laugh, quietly as they can. 

Harrison claps a hand on Laurens’ shoulder as he follows the General, the company supply ledger in hand. “Well done.”

“Ah, Laurens, always one to make an impression, yes?” Meade jokes as he finally walks into the office.

Laurens turns toward Hamilton, trying his best to stop blushing. Hamilton holds out the salve from when Laurens first came downstairs. “Just one more thing?”

Laurens takes a big gulp of his coffee. “Blast.”

“I’ll get the French for us,” Tilghman says, finally freed from his chair troubles and jogs out of the office.

Hamilton shakes the dish at Laurens but Laurens shakes his head, no. Hamilton sighs then takes the cloth away from Laurens, placing it over the herbs in the dish. “Well, Laurens, at least you did not fall down the stairs.”

At this, Laurens finally smiles.

 

After another long day of writing, French beginning to intertwine with English in his head, Laurens finds himself to be the last aide left in the office. A candle burns low on his table and his eyes begin to feel strained. It would not do well to damage his sight along with his head, so Laurens finally puts down the pen at the end of his last letter transcribed for Washington and blots the final sentences. He folds it up, puts it on top of his correspondence pile then stands up from his seat. He walks around the wall separating the two offices and leaves the letters to be reviewed in the morning by his Excellency before sending; it is really only Hamilton who can write as closely to the General’s style as preferred and is sometimes able to seal his letters for sending without any review. 

Laurens then walks quickly across the hall and out to the kitchen. The kitchen is dark and empty at this time, though embers still burn red in the hearth so the room is warm. Laurens peers about for any food left out, though, as he should have expected, he sees little. Laurens finds some bread and breaks off a chunk, soft enough though certainly not fresh. Then, chewing on the small piece of bread, he returns to the house toward bed. He finds Hamilton waiting for him at the base of the stairs holding a candle.

“Hello.”

Hamilton smiles at him. “You left the candle burning.”

Laurens looks at the candle light illuminating Hamilton’s face, matching his hair in the glow. “Thank you.”

“I just finished a letter to Fitzgerald, sent your regards.”

“Of course.”

Laurens holds out the bread to Hamilton but he shakes his head no.

“Are you to bed?”

“As I should have an hour ago.”

“Yes.”

“Did you come to ensure I do so now?”

Hamilton smiles at him. “You have done the same for me.”

Laurens nods. “Thank you.”

Hamilton gestures to the stairs beside him and Laurens starts up them, Hamilton close behind. Laurens munches on the last of the bread as he walks up the steps. When he moves toward the second set of stairs up toward the attic, he turns to say goodnight but Hamilton follows him up the stairs. Laurens gives Hamilton a questioning look. 

Hamilton hums once then tilts his head. “I told Tench someone needed to keep an eye on you this evening so that come morning you would not make two times into a third with injuring your person.”

Laurens scoffs quietly. “Hamilton...”

“I am entirely serious.”

“And what is your plan, watch me until morning then hold my shoulders down whilst I wake?”

Hamilton grins. “If you ask nicely.”

Laurens stares at Hamilton for a moment then ascends the stairs, the sound of Hamilton quietly following behind him. He turns up the stairs until he reaches the top floor. The air is colder, though the sun from the day has likely warmed it some.

Hamilton makes a ‘brr’ noise as he paces over the floor and places the candle on the desk.

“You needn’t stay up here; in truth it would be better if you did not.”

“Why?” Laurens gives him a look which Hamilton pretends to not to mark. “You clearly need protection from your own rash mornings.”

“Alexander...”

Hamilton stops pacing and looks at Laurens, his voice low. “I know what allowances we have here, solitude in this room but not this house. I will not lead us astray.”

Laurens shrugs out of his coat and hangs it over the chair. “I hope not.” He sits down on the edge of his cot, pulling at his boots. “You know how hard I find denying you.”

Hamilton purses his lips, rocking back and forth on his heels for a moment. “And you worry of me leading us astray?”

Laurens grins, pulling his first boot off. “One might call me cunning at times.”

“One might.”

Hamilton starts pacing again, glancing around the bare space as if he has never been there before.

“Hamilton stop pacing so,” Laurens chides quietly, “or if you must, remove your boots. You will draw up the General asking after what worries me only to find you in my place.”

Hamilton walks over to the chair and sits down facing Laurens. “Wise words.”

“You are not the only smart one.”

Hamilton chuckles, pulling at his boots. “It does come as a surprise.”

Laurens huffs, his second boot off, and stands again with his boots in hand. “And yet you, the smart one, thought it wise to tell Tilghman you planned to sleep up here, the coldest room in the house, with me, to ensure I do not bang my head once more.”

Hamilton looks down, feigning deep interest in his boots.

“Were Tilghman more suspicious I would fear his arrival in the middle of the night to catch us out.”

Hamilton looks up with a frown and whispers, “Tench never would expose us thus, even should he know for fact.”

Laurens steps closer to Hamilton and kisses the top of his head. “Too true.”

Laurens curves around the chair and places his boots by the wall. He used to have trees to place inside his boots to keep them formed but long days and rushed mornings found him abandoning such formality. His feet can do well to keep his boots in check during the day.

“Laurens?”

Laurens turns back to Hamilton. Hamilton holds up his boots with a smile. Laurens takes them and sets them next to his own. He stares at them and feels an odd sensation in his chest seeing the pairs of boots lined up together.

Arms slide around Laurens sides, hands clasping low at his belly. Laurens leans back against Hamilton, his body warm and his forehead pressed against the base of Laurens’ neck. Laurens puts his hands over Hamilton’s, the other man still wearing his coat so Laurens feels the cool of metal buttons on Hamilton’s cuffs. Laurens turns around in Hamilton’s arms, leaning down to press his forehead against Hamilton’s. 

Hamilton reaches up and touches the spot on Laurens head. “A definite bump now.”

“Twice will cause such.”

“And who to blame for that?”

“McHenry.”

Hamilton snorts and knocks his nose against Laurens’. “You cannot blame the man for everything.”

“I prefer to.”

Hamilton chuckles again as he slides his hands around the back of Laurens’ neck. “I could make Tilghman sleep up here and you could take his bed.”

Laurens closes his eyes, presses closer, rubs circles over Hamilton’s lower back. “Mmhmm.”

“He is an agreeable man you know, he may say yes.”

Laurens smiles, focuses on the feeling of Hamilton’s fingers sliding along his neck under the collar of his shirt. “Mmhmmm.”

“He might enjoy the privacy, as would we.”

Laurens pulls one hand around to Hamilton’s front and puts his fingers over Hamilton’s mouth. Hamilton makes a displeased noise. Laurens drops his hand and nudges Hamilton’s cheek with his nose.

“It is not an idea without merit,” Hamilton continues. “I could plead your –”

Laurens puts his fingertips over Hamilton’s lips again. He opens his eyes and through their close proximity still sees the glare of Hamilton’s gaze. “Hush, Alexander.”

Hamilton pulls one hand away from Laurens’ neck and grips Laurens’ fingers. “You cannot silence me.”

“I can.” Laurens leans in and kisses Hamilton once. “For the hour is late.” He kisses Hamilton again. “The house quiet.” He kisses him another time. “And your voice far too carrying.”

Hamilton nods, “I understand,” and kisses Laurens to punctuate his words in mimic of Laurens. “I shall be softer.”

Hamilton kisses Laurens again, hands combing through Laurens’ hair so the ribbon keeping it back slides to the floor. Laurens’ hair falls down to bracket his face. Hamilton kisses him harder, tastes like coffee and ink, runs his fingers through Laurens’ freed hair, holds his face as though Hamilton might drown in him and Laurens wishes to be his ocean. 

Hamilton pulls back, his thumbs rubbing on Laurens’ cheeks. He glances up toward the bump on Laurens’ head. “I am still in disbelief you managed to mangle yourself over two consecutive days.”

Laurens smiles in a shy way. “I do err against my own safety.”

“Even when withindoors.”

Laurens smiles at Hamilton, brushes their noses together. “Did I mention we should sleep?”

“I may have distracted you from such thoughts.”

Laurens settles his hands low at Hamilton’s hips, looking him up and down, so fine in his uniform, if somewhat comical without boots.

“We should.” Laurens steps back. “Lest someone come up and find us having stood here wrapped around each other all night.”

“I would gladly accept that.”

Laurens smiles and he feels as if his heart might burst. He steps forward and eases Hamilton’s coat off his shoulders, forcing the other man to turn around so Laurens can take the coat fully off. Laurens folds and drapes Hamilton’s coat over his own on the chair. He then pulls at his own cravat and vest, walking over to his cot to divest himself of his stockings. 

As Laurens sits, he sees Hamilton watching him from where they stood. Laurens raises his eyebrows until Hamilton sighs. “Fine. You are correct.”

“I am.”

Hamilton pulls at the buttons of his vest and flings off the garment, dropping it in a small heap on one windowsill. He twirls his cravat around over his head and finally away from his neck to lie on top of the waistcoat. Then he walks languidly across the room to Fitzgerald’s mattress on the floor. He flops down on it yanking off his stockings and then his breeches with a bit more care. He watches Laurens as he kicks the breeches to the end of the bedroll and wiggles his eyebrows.

Laurens purses his lips and shakes his head. “Tease.”

“Me? You are the one across the room.”

“And I shall stay here with the General and our four brothers below our feet.” He replies in a hush.

“I do hate when you favor prudence.”

Laurens pulls off his breeches and lays them with his waistcoat on top of Hamilton’s coat on the chair. He could do with something more to keep his uniform crisper, but then again so few of them even have clean uniforms now let alone crisp.

Laurens looks at Hamilton again. “Good night then, Hamilton, my private guard against head injury.”

Hamilton lies down on the pallet and smiles. “I shall be steadfast.”

Laurens leans over to the folding desk and blows out the candle. He lies back on his cot and stares up at the ceiling. He imagines he sees a crack the shape of his head and smiles to himself. He does worry, somewhat irrationally, if he should knock his head again might he cause some real damage. Is he so ridiculous as that? There could be merit in moving the cot.

Then he hears the sound of moving feet. He glances over as Hamilton stands now beside Laurens’ cot, lifting up the blankets. “Do move over.”

“The cot is barely big enough for –” 

But Hamilton nudges Laurens’ knees with his foot and Laurens scoots as far to the side as he can so Hamilton may squeeze in. Laurens worries at them breaking the cot with their weight. Hamilton lies down, one leg draped over Laurens’ their noses bumping together.

Laurens bites back a laugh, “Hamilton...” 

Laurens shifts his one arm out of the way and under the pillow as Hamilton curls his between them. They curve their outer arms around each other, Hamilton twisting his hand in Laurens’ hair.

“You are absurd.”

“How can I properly protect you from across the room?”

Laurens smiles, ghosts his lips over Hamilton’s. “You are...” He kisses Hamilton lightly, “absurd.”

“I am thorough.”

“You do not know how dearly I should wish to lie with you each night, close and warm as this.” Laurens strokes a hand over Hamilton’s cheek. “But...”

“But we are high above and none should look for us lest you hit your head once more.” Hamilton strokes his fingers through Laurens hair, pushing it up. “And I rise with the sun.”

“You do not.” Laurens traces the line of Hamilton’s jaw. “You snore deep into the sun’s rise.”

Hamilton kisses him once. “Sleep, John.”

“With you entwined over me?” Laurens tries to sound incredulous but instead comes out wanting. “I would, how I would...”

“So sleep,” Hamilton whispers.

“We have said it is not safe...”

“Hush,” Hamilton says putting the fingertips of his hand squished between them over Laurens’ lips as Laurens did to him when they stood together. “Sleep.”

“Alexander...”

“Sleep, dear Jack.”

Laurens thinks of what to say to get Hamilton up again, strokes his hand along Hamilton’s cheek trying to think of an argument.

Then he breathes in deeply, awaking again as if from a haze, deep and perfect and warm. Hamilton still lies beside him, entwined with him in the darkness, their noses touching and breath slow. Laurens knows it has been some hours, the two of them sleeping together, never moving. Laurens feels such peace and curls tighter around Hamilton.

“Is it time?” Hamilton whispers, his voice heavy with sleep, only half awake.

“No,” Laurens replies, sliding his hand slowly over Hamilton’s face, tracing his features. “It is still dark.”

“But it is near time.”

“No,” Laurens says, switching their roles now, wanting to keep Hamilton in his arms. “It is the Nightingale, not the lark.”

Hamilton chuckles, tired and low in his chest, finally opening his eyes. “How could I leave my Juliet?”

Laurens kisses Hamilton. His eyelids wish to close in contrast and drift them both back down. Hamilton kisses him back, his outer hand fallen low against Laurens’ stomach now.

“My darling,” Hamilton whispers.

“My dear,” Laurens replies.

Then Hamilton sighs deeply and pulls himself away, half stumbles off the cot making it shake and walks over to the bedroll in the opposite corner. Laurens sighs in dismay but will not quote more Shakespeare because there are limits. Laurens will not endanger his Hamilton.

“Dream of me, my Jack,” Hamilton says across the dark.

“Always,” Laurens replies as he closes his eyes once more.

 

Laurens hears footsteps below. He hears McHenry chiding someone, “...and you sound as an angry cow,” no doubt about their snoring though Laurens imagines it is misdirected as McHenry always snores.

Laurens chuckles to himself, feels the sun from the window on his face. Morning for true this time. He hears Tilghman groaning, displeased noises of rising for work yet again. Laurens moves to sit up then feels a hand light against his forehead. 

He opens his eyes and sees Hamilton knelt beside his bed. “Be careful, John.”

Laurens smiles and grips Hamilton’s hand, pulls it down from his head, fingers threading together. “My savior.”

“Good morning,” Hamilton says, leaning in to kiss Laurens quickly.

Laurens smiles, his head saved for the day and his lips ready with the memory of all they could want against them. “Good morning, Alexander.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story actually expands from a true account of John Laurens at Valley Forge. If you visit Washington's headquarters at Valley Forge, up at the attic level you will find a small sign which includes: "There is an account of aide-de-camp John Laurens rising in the morning and hitting his head on the low ceiling." The volunteer there informed us that John wrote as such to his father in a letter.
> 
> If you have not visited Valley Forge before, I highly recommend it. You can actually be in the house where it happened!
> 
> Also, in defense of my McHenry 'hate': From James McHenry to Elias Boudinot, 2nd July 1778  
> Though I think researching him James McHenry sounds like a wonderful gentleman.


End file.
